


Fencing swords and beach houses

by Mouse (clandestineAbattoir)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Other, Smoking, This gets really depressing guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-19 23:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8228426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clandestineAbattoir/pseuds/Mouse
Summary: This is the life of D strider





	

Your name is D Strider, you're 25, and you're dying next to the only person you've ever cared about.  
Woah, wait, hold up, what the fuck? Can you back this shit up a decade or so, you can't start a story by dying you absolute twat. God, what would Rosie think of you now. Oh wait, she can't think, she's dead. God damnit. 

Ah, here we go, much better. You're five years old, and you have absolutely no what's going on. You know your name is Dave or Devon but you always have trouble remembering which and moms not here to tell you right now.  Its hot and its dark outside and you're hungry. You were just kicked out of a black minivan. The rest of the night seems... Foggy to you. Oh well. Maybe you can find food. You decide thats a great idea and walk around into the Houston night.

You're seven years old when you meet Sensei. You've been on the streets for two years, nobody quite paying attention to the skinny boy covered in dirt from resting your head on dirty pillows you find in alleyways. Your favorite  pillow had been a blue and purple striped couch cushion.  
You're dressed in red, the same red shirt that you had as a five year old, and your little pants are getting to small and making it harder to walk. A man takes a look at you, and you agree to go to his house with him. Stupid idea, looking back on it. His hair is gray and he's unshaven and he's got bags under his eyes to match the sagging wrinkles of his chin. He's much tanner than you are and he wars baggy gray sweatpants and a white robe. He tosses a pair of jeans at you, giving you a chance to put them on before handing you a sword. He then proceeds to promptly whoop your ass in a fight in his cramped attic. 

You are ten when he dies. You walk into his cramped, shady looking house on the end of the shady looking street in the bad part of Houston, his groceries clutched in one hand, fencing sword with the broken tip in the other, and he's lying at the just inside the doorway, a dog digging into his throat. You toss the bag of groceries inside and leave. 

You're twelve and god damnit, Michigan is cold. You hitchhiked you way up north from Houston in a series of shady looking cars with even shadier looking people. But hey, they let you keep your sword so you weren't complaining.   
At least this town has a nice library.  
You manage to scrounge up a few dollars, buy yourself a shitty coffee, and then head into said library. Wow look, a girl. Maybe you should say hi to her, prepubescent boy. She says her name is rose, you say your name is Devon (after a brief mental coin flip). You end up calling her Rosie and she ends up calling you D.  
When you tell her about sensei, about the hitchhiking, she laughs at you. Wow, for a woman who wants to become an author, she sure doesnt believe in much. Sensei, you get her not believing. You don't believe sensei yourself either honestly.  When you tell her about your favorite broken fencing sword that had been sadly discarded to rust in a Michigan alleyway, she doesn't believe that either.

The two of you become friends, somehow, she stocking the shelves of the library that you read book after book about movies in. She loves books a lot. She says she wants to be writer.

You are thirteen, and you live in a shitty hotel room with Rosie with sheets that smell like cigarettes and are damp and musty and not changed often enough. But its not a brown leather couch that sticks to your cheek, so its fine. 

You are also thirteen the first night Rosie wakes up screaming. She's screaming and you have no idea what to do. You find out that its from a nightmare. You never find out what they're about. 

You're fourteen and youre sitting on the bed of another shitty hotel room with softer blankets and a TV. Neither you nor Rosie sleep much any more. A woman has found this planet, a woman of grey and fuschia who apparently owned Betty Crocker. And you know that something is wrong. You know it, Rosie knows it, and that night, you two cling to each other just a little bit tighter. 

You are fifteen and Rosie has started wearing black lipstick. You both spend your days lost in words and passive aggressive political backlash against the condesce. You're both still terrified. You are both looking for someone to help you make a mark. Rosie write a book, a long ass book, and you wrote a screenplay.  
You are still fifteen when someone accepts your work.

You are sixteen, and the world has gotten worse than ever before. Guy Fieri is in power, and you sloppily rush him into your script. You and Rosie are still terrified, but she does not cry. You are determined to make sure she doesn't see you cry, either. 

You are seventeen, and you are back home. Your works have been successful, so you moved to Houston. You are only a block from where sensei used to live. For the first time, you miss the old man. Just a little. You tell Rosie this is where you're from, and she believes you.  
You are seventeen and Rosie still has nightmares. You two still share a bed.

It is your eighteenth birthday, and to celebrate you bought yourself a beach house. Its a gray beach house right off the coast, adorned with gold inside. There's a white piano with gold lines on it. You got melted chocolate on it one time and Rosie spent ten minutes staring at you in a black sunhat with a flower on it and an orange and purple sundress like a disappointed mother. It was a strange sight. You love jumping off the balcony and onto the sand. Its the only way you can feel alive any more.

You are eighteen, and the batterwitch is a fucking batterbitch. She's destroying everything you and Rosie hold dear. Every law, every custom, every tradition. Gone. You participate in the last free election the world will ever see. The jugallos win by a landslide. 

 

You are eighteen and you come out with your second movie. Rosie publishes another lengthy text. You decide you are tired of being eighteen. Rose cuts her hair, choppily with a pair of shears. You wear Pikachu pajamas to a movie premier.

You are nineteen and money is no longer an object to you. You and Rosie are parted for business means, and you see her wave sarcastically in videos. At least she still has that. You take up smoking to try and forget the numbness. Puff. Cough. Puff. Cough. You and Rosie fight a lot about meaningless things now. Meaningless fights to fill meaningless days.

You are twenty, and the game you play now has gotten so much more dangerous. You could die. You don't know if you'd mind anymore.

You are twenty drunk, and telling Rosie you love her. She smiles a condescending smile and ignores you. Through the haze of alcohol, you feel hurt. But oh well. 

You are twenty two when you find out about the lil' man. He'll come long after you, some stupid law put in place by the Batterwitch. He'll also come long after the apocalypse. You sure hope he likes orange soda.

You are twenty two when you decide to fight the Batterwitch. You get a new sword, a katana. And it feels wrong in your hand, but you make due. You wish you still had your fencing sword. Rosie finds out about your smoking, and tells you it'll kill you. You both know that's a lie.

You are twenty three and you've about had it. You and Rosie finish preparing for you children. You never found out the lil mans name. You still hope he likes orange soda. 

You are twenty five and locked in a battle with Guy Fieri. Who know this guy could dodge so damn well. He steps to the side as you make a swing and god, what you wouldn't give to have your trusty old fencing sword with the broken tip. You wonder if its still in the garbage can back in Michigan. Probably not. Might've been scrapped for- godamnit man focus. Step parry slash slash step parry crunch. Ah, there. Fat bastard's lying in a pool of his own blood. Time to go meet Rosie. You make your way to yoir meeting spot, taking out a pack of cigarettes and smoking fast, letting your nerves cool down as the smoke fills your lungs.  
She shows up about ten minutes later, knitting needles caked is juggalo blood. Well, time to go face your doom

The battle against the batterwitch is intense. You're running, jumping, flashtepping, the smoke making your lungs burn and the endless swinging of the sword making your arms burn. She toys with you at first, keeping you just on the edge of winning. Then, all hope is lost, as if you had any in the first place. She gets Rosie first, running her through with her trident. You take one last infuriated swing, screaming in rage, in agony, as she grabs your blade and impales you with it. You lay on your back, waiting for death to get you as you reach your hand to Rosie's and desperately wish you had just kept your fencing sword.  
You're twenty five years old when you die.


End file.
